Hot Pursuit

Owen snorted. “Who’s going to protect you from him? That guy has always hated you.”

Thinking of Gingrich’s accusation, Braden’s temper flared again. “Marty’s the one who needed protecting from me,” he admitted. “I was about to hit him when I clipped Sam with my elbow.”

Owen nodded. “Of course... Too bad she got in the way.” He was a little younger than Braden and Gingrich, but he’d grown up in Northern Lakes, too. He knew the trooper too well.

Trent sighed. “Good thing she stopped you, or we’d be bailing you out of jail right now.”

“At least he would’ve been safe in there,” Dawson remarked. “Sam McRooney was right to call in protection for you. She just called the wrong person.”

“I don’t need a state trooper,” Braden said. The last thing he wanted was anyone following him around; it was bad enough when Stanley brought Annie to the firehouse and she shadowed his every move.

“No, you don’t,” Owen agreed. “Not when you’ve got us. We’ll each take a shift.”

Braden shook his head. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No,” Ethan Sommerly agreed. The Hotshot was the biggest loner on the team. He spent most of his time as a ranger in the middle of a national forest in the Upper Peninsula. Of course he would understand. But then he added, “You need a bodyguard.”

Wyatt nodded in agreement. “If you don’t want one of us, I can see if Matt can get time off from the assisted-living center to protect you.”

Matt was Wyatt’s soon to be brother-in-law. The kid had wanted to be a Hotshot. But when he, like hundreds of other applicants, hadn’t gotten the open position as a US Forest Service firefighter, he’d decided to go back to school to become a registered nurse.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, either,” Braden said. He’d argued enough for the day, so he stood up. “What I need is a good night’s sleep before the meeting tomorrow.” He worried that might be hard, though he wasn’t sure what would keep him awake longer—that note, or his guilt over accidentally hitting Sam.

Or would it be other thoughts of Sam that kept him up? She was damn beautiful.

“Braden, you can’t just take off,” Cody protested as he started away from the booth. “You never know when or how he might strike at you.”

“I’ll be vigilant,” he promised his guys. “He won’t sneak up on me.”

From the skepticism on their faces, it was clear he hadn’t convinced them. So he added an order, “Nobody follow me. I’m perfectly safe.”

He wasn’t. And they knew it. But being around him would put them in danger, too. They’d already been through enough of that. He’d nearly lost Wyatt, Dawson and Cody in fires.

And Owen...

He glanced at the jagged scar on the man’s cheek. He’d nearly lost the Marine on his last deployment. They all risked their lives enough doing their jobs. He wouldn’t ask them to put themselves further at risk because of him. He glanced over at Sam McRooney. And he certainly wouldn’t put her in danger, either.

“I can take care of myself,” he assured them, and headed out of the bar before they could argue.

He appreciated and understood their concern, though. As he stepped outside, he felt an odd sensation—like he was being watched. None of them had followed him from the bar, so it had to be someone who was already outside—maybe even waiting for him? He peered around in the dark but couldn’t see anyone lurking in the shadows beyond the small circles the street lamps cast on the sidewalk.

That didn’t matter; he didn’t need to see the person to know he was there.

Braden could’ve gone back inside, but he didn’t. That wasn’t how he wanted to live his life—in fear. He felt the shadow following as he walked the two blocks to the small home he’d rented because of its close vicinity to the firehouse. He’d had a bigger house before the divorce—one farther from town with a big yard and a lot of bedrooms. He’d intended to raise his family there.

But maybe it was good that had never happened. Because then they’d be in danger, too. Fortunately his parents had moved away from Northern Lakes a couple of years ago, to be closer to his sister and her kids. They’d promised when he gave them grandkids, they’d come home. But they were safer in Arizona—even with wildfires burning nearby. At least nature had caused those—a lightning strike—not a maniac with a match.

Whoever was following seemed to tail Braden all the way home. The skin between his shoulder blades tingled at the feeling of being watched. It hadn’t made him walk any faster, though. He wasn’t afraid. He was pissed. So pissed he stomped across his porch with such force his front door creaked open before he even reached for the knob. He must’ve left it unlocked. But he knew he’d shut it tightly; he always did.

Someone had been inside his house; undoubtedly the same person who’d been in his office earlier. He wished momentarily for the gun he kept behind the seat of his US Forest Service pickup. The shotgun was for protection from bears, though. Not people.

But while Braden suspected someone had been inside his house, he doubted he was still there. He was behind Braden—watching him—probably for his reaction to whatever he’d been doing inside Braden’s house. Whatever he’d left behind for Braden to discover...

He stepped closer and opened the door the rest of the way. The house was dark inside; he couldn’t see anything.

But he could smell it. Gasoline.

5

SAM STARED AT the closed door of the Filling Station in disbelief that Braden had just walked out without talking to her again. Not that she felt personally slighted, but professionally he’d ignored her recommendation to have someone protecting him. Of course she couldn’t blame him for not trusting Gingrich to do the job.

The trooper’s phone vibrated seconds before a tune pealed out—something that sounded peculiarly like something you might hear at a strip club. As Martin pulled his phone from his pocket, his wedding ring glinted in the light dangling over their table. She doubted he would have assigned that song as his wife’s ringtone. But then she didn’t know much about marriage beyond what a few married friends had told her. She certainly hadn’t grown up with an example of it since she couldn’t even remember her mom.

Gingrich didn’t accept the call immediately—just stared down at his phone, his face flushing red again. “I need to take this.”

“Go ahead,” she said, curious about who’d put that look on his face—a mixture of shame and excitement.

“I—I won’t be able to hear in here,” he said. “So I’m going to take it outside. I may have to leave.”

“I asked you here to discuss protection duty for Superintendent Zimmer,” she reminded him.

“And I told you he’s not the one who needs protecting.” There was something in his voice—something almost threatening—that had Sam’s patience close to snapping.

She picked up her ice pack and held it in a tight fist—more tempted to throw it at him than use it. “You’re not in charge of this investigation, Trooper Gingrich,” she informed him. “I am.”

His face flushed an even deeper red. “But Braden doesn’t want my protection any more than I want to protect him.” He glanced at the table of Hotshots, then at the closed door. “He doesn’t seem to understand you’re in charge, either.”

Though Braden had claimed he wasn’t a chauvinist, she wondered if that was the case.

“I need to leave,” Gingrich said as he stood. His phone began to ring again, and he hurried toward that door.

“Dick,” she muttered after him.

A deep chuckle followed her remark. But she wasn’t sure which of the Hotshots who suddenly surrounded her table was behind it.

“You’re obviously as good a judge of character as your dad,” a blond-haired firefighter remarked as he extended his hand to her. “I’m Cody Mallehan.”

She shook his hand—firmly—like her father had taught her when she was just a little girl. Unfortunately she’d never gotten much bigger. She hadn’t been able to excel at the things her brothers had. So she had to excel at what she could—catching arsonists.

“Mack’s mentioned you,” she said. “He’s not too happy you didn’t join him at Northern Cascades.”

“That’s cool of him, but I’m happy here,” Cody said. “My team is my family.” He introduced the other men. Wyatt Andrews and Dawson Hess. Trent Miles.

She recognized all the names. She had the roster of the entire team.

“Owen James and Ethan Sommerly left a little while ago. Owen had an EMT call and Ethan can only handle being social for so long,” Cody remarked. “Otherwise, you could have met them, too.”

“I do need to meet the entire team at some point,” Sam said. Because, like Gingrich, she suspected one of them could be the arsonist. She’d already started investigating them. Owen James carried physical scars from war. Did he have psychological ones that could cause him to start fires?

And Sommerly was notoriously antisocial. Enough to want to hurt people?

“You’ll meet everyone tomorrow,” Superintendent Andrews said, “at the team meeting Braden has called.”

He hadn’t mentioned the meeting to her. He certainly hadn’t invited her. But she didn’t betray her surprise—just nodded in agreement.

“I hope you didn’t believe any of that nonsense Gingrich spewed about Braden,” Cody said as he settled onto the chair across from her.

“He’s just jealous,” Wyatt added as he turned a chair around and straddled it. “Goes back to high school and all the girls chasing after Braden instead of him.”

“Braden needs some women chasing after him now,” Cody remarked.

Sam’s pulse quickened as she remembered how he’d looked in just that towel with water droplets trailing over his impressive chest and abs. She couldn’t believe he didn’t have women chasing after him now. If not for the investigation, she might be tempted to be one of those women.

Cody continued, “After what his ex-wife did to him...”

It would be her business only if it had something to do with the investigation. But then it was hard to know the arsonist’s motive unless she learned everything about his latest target: Braden. So Sam asked, “What was that?”

“Cheated on him, then invited him to her wedding to the other guy,” Wyatt replied. “Braden did have a couple women after him a few months ago. They mistook him for a stripper and nearly ripped off his clothes.”

Sam could hardly blame them. He looked better without clothes. Not that he hadn’t looked damn good in the Hotshots’ casual uniform of black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants. Their official uniform while firefighting was all yellow—shirt, pants, coat and hat—so they were easier to see through the smoke and flames.

“Now the arsonist is after him,” Dawson said, “and that’s not good...”

“No,” Sam agreed. “Especially when he refuses police protection.”

Wyatt snorted. “You can’t call Marty police protection. He’s an idiot, just like you said. How the hell can he blame Braden for starting the fires?”

“Every time one of them has started we’ve been with him,” Cody said.

Sam looked at the men gathered in a circle around her table and asked, “All of you?”

“The three of us who are based out of Northern Lakes during the off-season.” Cody gestured at himself and the two assistant superintendents. “We were definitely together when that first fire started and the last one, too.”

“So the four of you were together?” she asked. One person might lie for another, might even be working with another—although that was rare for arsonists unless they were hired to start fires for insurance claims. But four?

Cody groaned. “You let Gingrich get to you.”

She shook her head. She’d had her suspicions before she’d even talked to the state trooper. And while the four of them could alibi one another, that left sixteen other Hotshot suspects. “You’re very protective of your boss,” she remarked, “yet you all just let him walk out of here alone.” She included herself in that accusation. Her heart shifted again, contracting with a spasm of fear. Was he all right?

“He gave us direct orders not to follow him,” Wyatt said.

“And, what? You’ve never disobeyed one of his direct orders before?” she asked. She’d read the report on the first fire. She knew Wyatt Andrews had refused Braden’s command to return to base. He’d refused to leave the fire until he’d located the missing campers. Her gaze swung toward Dawson Hess and Cody Mallehan. Against Braden’s orders, they had returned to the fire to help Wyatt.

“You’re definitely Mack’s daughter,” Cody remarked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a compliment?” She wasn’t certain. Mack wasn’t always the easiest person—especially with her.

He grinned. “Definitely a compliment.”

“Careful,” Wyatt warned him. “You’re nearly engaged. You can’t be complimenting other women anymore.”

“I just meant she knows her stuff,” Cody said. Then he turned back toward her. “You’re thorough.”

“That’s how I close cases,” she said. “I know how to do my job.” Had they come over here to question her abilities? She was used to being underestimated—especially by alpha males like them. But she suspected they had another motive, particularly when she noticed Dawson Hess studying her face.

When he realized she’d caught him staring, he pointed toward her cheek. “You should have used the ice pack Braden sent over,” he advised. “It would have stopped the swelling and minimized the bruising.”

Makeup would minimize the bruising, too. She shrugged off his concern. “It’s fine.”

“You know Braden feels horrible about that,” Cody said. “He would never hurt a woman.”

“I know,” she said. “I didn’t press charges—no matter how much Gingrich tried to convince me otherwise.” Calling him to protect Braden was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. But could his team be trusted to protect him?

Only Wyatt, Cody and Dawson, who’d been together when the fires had started. If that was true, none of them could be the arsonist. But what about the sixteen other members of the team?

Did they have alibis? Because the fires only happened when the Hotshots were in town, it was entirely possible the arsonist was one of them—which put Braden in more danger. He was unlikely to suspect one of his own.

She needed to talk to him—needed to make him aware of the threat. He wouldn’t want to hear it, of course, any more than her dad would want to hear that one of his team members couldn’t be trusted. Plus, it was late—felt even later since she’d traveled all day. She had yet to check into her hotel. And apparently she’d have to get up early to crash the Hotshot meeting Braden had called.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she’d made certain he was safe. “Where does Braden live?” she asked.

“Are you going to protect him?” Cody asked.

She could. She had a gun, and she knew how to use it. But knowledge might keep him safer than her weapon. Still, he wouldn’t be cautious if he couldn’t accept that the arsonist might be someone close to him.

“I need to talk to him,” she said.

One of Cody’s blond brows arched, as if he wondered if there was more to her wanting to see Braden. Sure, she was attracted to him. He was a good-looking man. But she had no intention of acting on that attraction.

All she wanted was to do her job—to catch the arsonist. But how many arsonists would she need to catch before her father started bragging about her and not just her brothers?

“I need to talk to him about the meeting,” she said. And how she wanted to interrogate every member of his team after it...

Cody nodded, but there was skepticism and something else in his eyes—as if he didn’t entirely believe her. Or hoped she had another reason for wanting to go to Braden’s house this late at night.

Truly, she just wanted to make sure he was safe. But as she followed his men’s directions down the dark street toward his house, she wondered who would make sure she was safe. Because she didn’t feel safe at all. And it had nothing to do with the arsonist and everything to do with seeing Braden Zimmer again.

* * *

BRADEN’S GUTS TIGHTENED into a knot of dread. Who the hell should he call to report the arsonist being inside his house? The state police? Gingrich would probably think the gas-soaked hay bale proved Braden’s guilt. And Sam...

He wasn’t sure what the hell Sam would think. Had Gingrich raised her suspicions? Did she have doubts about him now? Of course the arsonist was unlikely to burn down his own damn house. Not that it had been burned down.

There was only the one small hay bale sitting inside his living room. But it had been soaked in gasoline. The odor hung heavily in the air. He’d opened the windows, and the curtains billowed in the chilly evening breeze.

Just as he’d suspected, the arsonist hadn’t been waiting inside for him. He just left this message, which was even more blatant than the note. Gasoline-soaked hay bales were both his igniter and accelerator. Had he intended to start a fire in Braden’s house and had been interrupted? Or was he just taunting him that he could have?

Braden suspected the latter. He needed to call Sam—once he found his phone. He must have dropped it in the living room when he tripped over the bale. After getting gasoline on his pants and all over his skin, he’d wanted to clean up before calling anyone. Even after a shower, he could still smell the gasoline on his body. He thought about stepping back under the spray, but a noise on the porch drew his attention.

He stepped out of the bathroom just as a shadow passed the front windows. He sucked in a breath. Had the son of a bitch come back with a match?

Did he intend to start the blaze now—with Braden inside? But then knuckles bumped against the wooden door. He doubted the arsonist would knock.

The breath he’d sucked in slipped out in a ragged sigh. He shouldn’t have been surprised that at least one of the guys, if not all of them, would come by to check on him. Of course they would ignore his order to leave him alone. They could definitely be selective about which of his commands they followed sometimes. He’d have to bring that up at the morning meeting. But when he opened the door, he was shocked into silence because he hadn’t expected her.

How had she even known where he lived? Sam McRooney stood on his front porch, her face washed in the golden glow from the kerosene lanterns he’d converted to porch lights. Her cheek had swollen some more and was beginning to shift from red to purple.

Guilt made him feel even queasier than the smell of gasoline had. Hitting her had been an accident, but it was an accident he could’ve prevented had he kept his temper in check.

He knew better than to let jerks like Marty get to him. But then he’d been on edge—not just from the arsonist but from her. Or maybe it was like the guys had told him: he needed to get laid. Hell, Cody had left a box of condoms on his desk a couple of weeks ago.

He’d forgotten all about those until now—until he’d met Sam. Now not just guilt churned his stomach. Desire did, too. Even with the bruise, she was so damn beautiful.

Her mouth gaped as she stared at him. “Do you have something against wearing clothes?”

He glanced down at the towel knotted around his hips. “I just got out of the shower.”

“Again?” she asked, and her voice squeaked slightly. “You must be the cleanest guy in Northern Lakes.”

“Not according to Trooper Gingrich,” he said.

“He’s an idiot,” she said.

And Braden laughed with relief. He’d been worried Marty might have gotten to her.

She shivered—though he was the one wearing only a towel. The early autumn wind was brisk and cold, but he wasn’t chilled. The wind tangled her blond hair around her face. She reached up to tug silken strands from her long black lashes.

Desire had his stomach muscles clenching. Maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction, since her gaze kept slipping away from his to slide down his chest. It almost felt like a caress against his bare skin.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

He stepped back and gestured for her to come inside—not just to get out of the cold but to inspect what had become a crime scene. She hesitated before crossing the threshold into his living room. The small house had no foyer; the front door opened right into the living room. When he shut the door behind her, she tensed.

“It smells like gasoline in here,” she said.

“Because of that,” he said and gestured at the small bale—the kind someone would use for a little Halloween display—lying next to his front door. “I tripped over it when I got home—that’s why I had to shower.”

She bent over and examined the bale. His gaze went to her ass. It was perfectly round. His hands twitched with the urge to touch it. But he had no doubt she would hit him, and it wouldn’t be an accident.

“What the hell is that doing in your living room?” she asked as she whirled back around to face him. “How did that get in here?”

He shrugged, and her gaze skimmed across his shoulders. He felt it more than the wind blowing through the curtains. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’d have to ask the arsonist. I don’t know if I came home before he had time to light it or if this is just his way of sending me another warning.”

“He’s going to have to make that a little clearer for you,” Sam agreed. “You seem kind of dense.”

He sucked in a breath. “Good to know you don’t think I’m an arsonist—just stupid.”

“You are,” she said, “if you don’t take these threats seriously. It’s a good thing your guys told me where I could find you since you obviously had no intention of calling me about what you found here tonight, or about the meeting you’re having tomorrow.”

He sighed. “They’re idiots...”

“Why?” she asked. “For being honest with me? For correctly assuming I should be at that meeting?”

He’d honestly forgotten all about it—once she’d arrived. She’d distracted him right away. “I intended to tell you about the meeting. And I was going to call you about this—” his hand shook as he gestured at the bale “—as soon as I washed the gasoline off.”

She sucked in a breath. “That makes sense—if he came back and you had any gasoline on you...” She shuddered. “But you still should’ve called me right away. What if he’s still hanging around...”

Braden suspected he was—that he was watching to see how much he’d rattled him. That was another reason he hadn’t immediately called anyone. He didn’t want to let the guy think he was getting to him. He shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone...”

But he had felt another presence.

“I’ll call the state police,” she said as she reached for her phone. “Have them canvass the area.”

He caught her hand before she could press any buttons. “Not Gingrich...”

“I won’t make that mistake again,” she said as she touched her fingers to her bruise.

His stomach lurched, and he reached out, following the path her fingers had taken over the swollen cheekbone. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “You told me a few times. It’s fine. I know better than to get in the middle of a fight.”

“I shouldn’t have let Marty get to me.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed. “I understand why you don’t want him protecting you. But you should have let one of the guys come home with you.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t come anyway,” he admitted. Instead they’d let her come. His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What?” she asked. “Are you wondering if one of them had something to do with this?” She gestured at the bale again.

He gasped with shock that she’d suspect one of his team members. Marty had gotten to her. “Hell, no. They’re not arsonists. But they might be nearly as bad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. “What are they? Murderers?”

Heat rushed to his face, but he had to tell her now, even though it was embarrassing. “Matchmakers,” he admitted.

She laughed, but it sounded a bit nervous. “No...”

He ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. “Ever since my divorce, they’ve been trying to set me up with someone—anyone, really.”

“I’m anyone?”

“You’re female,” he said. “And damn good-looking.” He hadn’t meant to say that, too; he didn’t want it to be awkward between them.

But she must have heard the compliment so many times before that she didn’t react except for a slight blush.

“I thought sex didn’t matter to you,” she said, throwing his earlier words back at him.

He groaned. “I hope you didn’t tell them I said that...”

She shook her head. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“You talked to my guys,” he said with a heavy sigh of resignation. “I’m sure I have no secrets anymore.”

“Your secrets are definitely not safe with them,” she agreed.

So they’d told her what a fool he’d been. More heat rushed to his face. She touched it like he’d touched hers, skimming her fingertips across his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “about your ex-wife.”

“She didn’t sleep with you, too, did she?” he asked.

She laughed. “No. Sex does matter to me.”

And now the heat rushed lower in his body. He’d thought it hadn’t mattered. But he suddenly realized how long it had been since he’d been this attracted to a woman.

Hell, maybe he’d never been this attracted to a woman.

He hoped she didn’t look down, because his damp towel was about to give away just how attracted he was. As if she’d read his mind, she lowered her gaze, and her breath escaped in a soft gasp.

She shook her head, but didn’t step back when he moved closer. She just raised her gaze to his and murmured, “This is a bad idea.”

He couldn’t argue with her, not with the smell of gasoline burning in his nose. It was crazy to get involved with anyone now—it would only put that person in danger. “I know,” he agreed. “But for the first time I think I understand the arsonist...”

Her brow furrowed as she stared up at him. “How?”

“I understand how sometimes you just have a compulsion to do something and you can’t fight it...” That was how he’d heard some arsonists describe the urge to set fires—an unquenchable thirst. Until now he’d never had such a compelling desire to do something he knew was a mistake.

Until now he’d never had such a compelling desire at all...

“You feel a compulsion to set a fire?” she asked.

“I feel a compulsion to do this...” He touched her—just his fingertips along her jaw. Her skin was so silky, just like her hair, which brushed across his hand. He tipped up her chin and lowered his head to hers. When their mouths touched, he felt a jolt. Maybe it should’ve brought him to his senses. But that compulsion overwhelmed him. He skimmed his lips across hers. They were so soft.

Maybe she felt that jolt, too, because she gasped. And he deepened the kiss, dipping his tongue inside her mouth to taste her. She was sweet and sexy and hot.

Her hands moved between their bodies. But instead of pushing him back, they skimmed over his bare chest. His heart leaped against her palm—beating harder and faster as desire rushed over him like the wind blowing through the open window.

He felt the fire burning between them.

Then something besides the breeze blew through the open window—dropping onto the hardwood floor with a crash of breaking glass. Air whooshed—not from the window, but from the explosion of the burning rag catching the gasoline fumes on fire. Someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail inside, and now there was a real fire burning in the house. And like his kissing Sam, it was immediately out of control.